After hanging up with the fiery Northern Ireland (and worrying just a bit about Peter's wellfare with Aoife in charge), Arthur returned to the living room to find Francis alone on the couch, staring blankly at the television screen. The two younger nations were nowhere in sight.
"Where did--"
Before England had a chance to finish, the loud, unmistakeable voice of America rang out. France suddenly snapped out of his trance and looked around before realising it had come from outside, then sprang to his feet.
"Mon Angelterre, we are summoned!"
France nearly glided in his graceful movements to the coat rack, picking up his warm clothing, even handing England's coat and scarf over to him. Arthur followed Francis out, still pulling his gloves on as he walked off the doorstep, and then stopped as he looked up, inhaling softly. He couldn't remember the last time had seen so much snow. It had seemed like an evil, atrocious thing earlier, but now that things had settled more, it was quite beautiful.
"Heads up!" Matthew yelled in a momentary warning before pelting England and Francis with a couple snowballs.
Arthur leaned down and balled up a fistful of snow, throwing it with full enthusiasm back at the twins with a grin. Sine he had opted out of the Great Pie War, other than a close-combat attack on Francis, he thought it fitting to go all out now.
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